


Whatever This World Can Give to Me

by D20Owlbear



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But Aziraphale is also comfy, Crowley thought he lost his best friend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, God Approves (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, No actual porn, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Snuggling, Therapeutic Crying, aziraphale is an idiot, intimacy porn, night at the mayfair flat, post-trauma hugging, softe, softe angst, the plot is the emotions and that’s hard to sum up, yet another mayfair flat fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Crowley’s fingers felt raw, the tips ragged, like he’d been clawing at the unforgiving wood of a coffin buried too early, his bones ached, his head pounded in migraine, and his skin was dry and itchy. He’d gone through fire twice that day, he realized, the mortal flames of the bookshop which had taken Aziraphale from him and then the ring of hellfire around London, hot enough to discorporate someone much higher on the demonic-power scale than himself. He'd managed to hold it together then, to grit his teeth and watch as 130 kilometers sped past. That trip ought to have taken two-and-a-half hours or so by normal, human, standards. It took Crowley far less than that.Crowley is beyond exhausted. His day had been pretty shite to be fair, and he’d gone up and down a whole rollercoaster of emotions. Luckily his angel is there to help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 350
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	Whatever This World Can Give to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlygonRider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlygonRider/gifts).



Crowley was exhausted. He’s tired in ways he hadn’t been tired in since the Black Plague, possibly even the Flood. He’d expended himself in new and creative ways and forced the world to bend to his will for however long he could manage it. And now he could manage no longer, Crowley had nothing left to give. 

His fingers felt raw, the tips ragged, like he’d been clawing at the unforgiving wood of a coffin buried too early, his bones ached, his head pounded in migraine, and his skin was dry and itchy. He’d gone through fire twice that day, he realized, the mortal flames of the bookshop which had taken Aziraphale from him and then the ring of hellfire around London, hot enough to discorporate someone much higher on the demonic-power scale than himself. He'd managed to hold it together then, to grit his teeth and watch as 130 kilometers sped past. That trip ought to have taken two-and-a-half hours or so by normal, human, standards. It took Crowley far less than that. 

Then, he’d stopped time. Not only had he stopped it, but he also transported himself and two other whole, entire beings of not inconsequential power and substance to a separate plane of existence in which the Sands of Time were quite literal indeed. It was truly no wonder he was so weary. 

He fell asleep on the bus ride to his Mayfair flat, head lolling onto Aziraphale’s shoulder at each bump in the road, after redirecting the bus to London with yet another demonic power expenditure that wore on him. And, truly, it was all worth it for this. His best friend in the whole world, it was worth being this tired if he got to keep Aziraphale, for better or for worse. 

Crowley startled awake when Aziraphale shook his shoulder gently and blinked in the sort of foggy confusion only those who ought to still be asleep or the mildly concussed could have. Aziraphale had never watched any of those dreadful zombie movies Crowley so enjoyed, but he'd seen clips and the demon was certainly doing his best impression of one as he rose from his seat. If he’d gotten a glance at Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale was sure they’d be glazed over and hazy with sleep. Gently, oh so gentle, he gathered Crowley up by the hands and led him towards the building the bus had stopped in front of, assuming it was the correct building.

He didn’t bother to pay attention to the elevator panel. Aziraphale rarely used the infernal machines but because he had expected it to take him to Crowley’s floor, it did so without complaint. Aziraphale’s quiet expectations were far nicer than the usual glare it received from the demon on a regular basis, so the elevator was rather pleased to be able to acquiesce to the silent confidence of the angel currently supporting the demon resident.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, gently shaking the demon’s shoulders to rouse him. “Your keys?” he held his hand out and waited patiently as Crowley pat himself down for his keys. It was one thing to expect the elevator to work, but to be allowed into Crowley’s personal quarters by his door? That was, perhaps, a bit too much to expect, even for Aziraphale. 

After an extended moment of fumbling, Crowley gave up his search and pushed his way into the flat, which he now recalled hadn’t been locked in the first place. Ligur and Hastur had come in, busting the lock on their way, and Crowley hadn’t bothered to fix it before his desperate run to Aziraphale’s shop, hoping against hope that the angel would be alright. 

The thought of the fire in the bookshop stilled Crowley in his tracks, his blood freezing in his veins and shoulders scrunching up to his ears as he tensed. The adrenaline of remembered trauma shoot through his already overwhelmed system and wreaked its havoc on his physical corporation causing the body he inhabited to shake uncontrollably.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried softly, gathering the demon up by his hands once more, pulling him further into the flat towards an uncomfortable sofa that had not been used once since being unceremoniously manifested. “My dear boy, what is the matter? Are you alright?”

There were plenty of things Crowley could have said, or even not said, in response to that. He could have said nothing at all and it would have been better than what he actually did. Overwhelmed by the adrenaline as it fled his system, tears gathered in Crowley’s eyes. They spilled out and down his cheeks as a sob wrenched itself from his chest. It felt like a punch to his sternum, tearing all the air from his lungs and forcing him to hunch over and lean into Aziraphale. It was sudden, unexpected, and Crowley _hated_ it. He hated the feeling of being weak, of being out of control of his body, of being vulnerable in ways he didn’t fully understand. Most of all he hated being that way in front of his angel. 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale tutted, bringing up a hand to card through Crowley’s hair and pulling him forward to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Shh, dear boy.” Aziraphale murmured, enfolding Crowley’s weak form with the strength of his own, hoping to help with whatever the problem was. Aziraphale felt a bit weak too, a bit chipped around the edges–like he was moments away from cracking entirely–but having someone to focus on, especially someone so beloved as his dearest adversary, who needed him to stay put together and resolute helped quite a bit. 

Crowley attempted to put something into words. Not an apology, never an apology from a demon, but _something_. Anything, just so long as he wasn’t a crying mess in front of Aziraphale. He tried and failed, over and over again, aborted words sobbed into a camel-hair coat and half-formulated sentences that broke down into something unintelligible before they could escape his mind. 

“Slow down,” Aziraphale murmured gently, still petting Crowley’s hair and down his neck in what the angel hoped was a soothing gesture. As much as he liked having something, some _one_ , to focus on instead of himself and the spidery cracks that threatened to break him open, it hurt his heart to see Crowley cry the way he was. This hopeless, desperate thing bore little resemblance to the demon he knew and loved.

“Slow, ‘e says,” Crowley slurred, trembling in Aziraphale’s hold, safe and comforted but unable to ride out the wave of desolation that had overtaken his soul and burrowed into his bones, “Slow! ‘S like m’best frien’ didn’t get _destroyed_ .” And wasn’t that the meat of it? The whole of the matter? Crowley’s best friend _hadn’t_ been destroyed, but he hadn’t known that, not for too many hours. 

Aziraphale’s lips pulled into an anguished frown at the thought that Crowley had best friends elsewhere and he hadn’t even known about it, and he folded himself around Crowley even more, as if his body alone could protect the man-shaped demon from the world. “My dear, I am ever so sorry about your friend. If there is anything I can do to help find them and see if perhaps they’ve been sent to heaven-” 

Crowley cut him off, sputtering in something similar to rage, though far too confounded to truly be anger, “You- you _dunce_!” Aziraphale reeled back, holding Crowley out at arm’s length to look at him.

“Crowl-” 

“You idiot!” Crowley continued, those same anger-adjacent feelings fueling him, though they only made his vision blur more. Without thinking of the consequences Crowley ripped off his sunglasses and threw them across the room. They shattered as they hit the concrete wall opposite the couch, cold and barren, adorned with nothing.

“I meant _you!_ You pompous, fluffy-feathered birdbrain!” Crowley growled out as best he could, baring his teeth at Aziraphale, falling into age-old habits of presenting aggressiveness in a desperate attempt to conceal his vulnerability, “You- you holier-than-thou fool… you’re my best friend.” Crowley quickly ran out of steam. He was too tired, too old, too… everything. It was too much effort to be able to keep it all up, and he fell forward to bury his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing in the scent of his best friend open-mouthed. The scent of fire on his tongue nearly ruined it, but Aziraphale didn’t say anything more, just held him tight to his chest and let Crowley take his fill of the familiar scent until it overtook the bitter taste of ash in his mouth.

“I am?” Aziraphale whispered after a few quiet minutes, after their breaths coming in time with each other displaced air quietly in the too-still room, “I- I’m so sorry, Crowley.” The shame of not knowing filled him to the brim, overflowed out of him and permeated the room around them until it felt stifling.

“‘F course you are, angel.” Crowley sighed wetly, pushing himself off of Aziraphale just enough to look him in the eye. He’d never needed the angel to know he was being as honest as his demonic nature would allow more than he did in that moment, “I’ve known you for 6 millennia, I’ve sought you out since the whole Garden thing. Angel, you’re my _best friend_ , and I thought you were dead.” 

Crowley choked on nothing and drew a hand up to cover his eyes, hiding again, shielded and safe. But that wasn’t true, was it? Aziraphale could still see him, could still pierce his breast to see through to the heart of him. It felt like it at least, felt like being flayed open and his ribs cracked into mockeries of bloody wings so the angel before him could take a look at his naked heart. Suddenly, just like a thousand times before now as the sole object of Aziraphale’s piercing gaze, he understood why Adam and Eve covered themselves with fig leaves in their shame at being Seen. 

Aziraphale pulled his hand from his face, divesting Crowley of whatever safety in denial he had. It felt all at once like the scales being plucked from his eyes and like hot coals shoved under the flesh his cheeks, slowly heating the whole of him and causing him to burn at the gentle touch of soft fingers and a firm grip on his wrist. 

Aziraphale’s face was wet, was Crowley’s first thought, tear tracks flowed fresh down Aziraphale’s cheeks and the angel hiccuped quietly in his grief. The rest of him caught up after a few seconds and Crowley frowned, reaching out to cup the cheek of his angel, brushing his thumbs underneath Aziraphale’s eyes to dry his tears even before he’d thought about doing it. That was the problem, his body always seemed to move to fast around Aziraphale, his mind too far behind to temper it, and ruining everything he touched before he could catch up to stop himself. 

“Angel, sorry-” Crowley attempted to pull away, all at once aware of his profane hands sullying Aziraphale’s purity. His angel grasped at his wrists, keeping them where they were on his face, determined to prolong their contact.

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale cut his apology off, closing his eyes and leaning into Crowley’s hands. “It’s alright. It’s fine.” The understatement of _fine_ and _alright_ weighed heavy in Aziraphale’s chest, but what else could he have said? Could he have possibly said that Crowley’s touch was everything he’d hoped for? Everything he’d imagined? Every accidental brush of his hands or whisper of touch over layers of constricting clothing magnified into something so unexpected and worthy of all the praise and thanks his soul had to offer to the Almighty for whatever divine province She offered to make this a reality.

“Truly, Crowley?” It sounded more desperate than anything, like any rejection here might finally shatter Aziraphale to pieces. 

“Of course. Ya’ve always been my bessst friend.” Crowley hissed, steadily growing more and more overcome with whatever unnamable emotion it was. Crowley, of course, knew exactly what undemonic emotion it was, but for his own sake he was rather good at leaving it unacknowledged.

Aziraphale hummed and pulled Crowley into yet another embrace. Wrapping arms with all the strength the Lord placed within them around Crowley’s ever-fragile frame, protecting the heart suspended within it. The angel’s arms felt like a thick quilt of the softest down wrapped tightly around his shoulders, tender and impossibly comforting. Crowley melted into the embrace, feeling like he was made of mercury, toxic and entirely unable to fight against the warmth of his angel as he thawed into a non-newtonian liquid to press up against every possible surface of Aziraphale he was being offered.

They didn’t move, not for some time. They didn’t speak, for longer yet. 

“You ought to sleep,” Aziraphale whispered, wary about breaking the silence that sat heavy and comfortable between them. “I’ll keep watch.” The silent _I’ll watch over you_ , hung between them and Crowley tensed for only a second before nodding.

“Alright. ‘S fine.” The demon was far too weary, all the way to his bones and resonating in the core of him, to possibly deny Aziraphale. The angel stood slowly, bringing Crowley up with him, and slowly walked him to the bedroom sequestered away in the recesses of a too-dark flat situated in the center of Mayfair, lit by nothing other than an occasional light that knew better than to shine too brightly. By the end of the short walk, Aziraphale was nearly carrying Crowley, whose body had started to shut down once more. Understandably, considering the demon had cried for the second time today in just as many millennia. No wonder he was drained.

Aziraphale laid the demon down to rest, stripping him of the snakeskin boots, far more stylish than they were comfortable, and his blazer, vest, and shirt along with his scarf and chain necklace, laying them each carefully on a chair he snapped into existence near the bed so that Crowley could find them easily in the morning. With a weary sigh, Aziraphale pulled the covers up over Crowley’s shoulders and stepped back.

Crowley keened sadly at the loss of Aziraphale’s hands on him, the sort of sorrow that weighed heavy on one’s soul and dragged it down into the depths of grief. Helpless against the onslaught of Crowley’s despair, Aziraphale climbed into the bed before he could think better of it, shucking his shoes and coat off as he went. He smoothed his hand along the length of Crowley’s back in soothing motions and in response Crowley quieted, snuggling up against Aziraphale’s side, arm flung across thighs and face buried against his hip.

“Sleep well, my dear.” Aziraphale breathed, impossibly soft and gentle with this Fallen angel he sat beside. This moment felt like a dream, unreal and unattainable, and he refused to break the stillness in the air for something as silly as mere words. Crowley huffed an inaudible reply and buried his face into the angel’s plush hip further, unwilling to admit to anyone but himself that this was a dream come true, holding his angel like this.

The minutes ticked past, and slowly, _slowly_ Crowley’s breathing steadied, and Aziraphale was left awake. He wasn’t much for sleeping but, if left with nothing to busy himself, the angel was prone to fretting. Without his books, they’d all burnt to ash and he was entirely unwilling to think about that fact just now, Aziraphale didn’t have much of a choice. 

Sleep it was.

With a wistful sigh, he pulled off his vest and shirt and bowtie, all carefully folded and set to the side. Crowley stirred only once during all this, deeply asleep already as he was. Aziraphale wriggled to lay down on the bed within Crowley’s arms, his own wrapped around Crowley’s shoulders and began raking his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It was soothing, the repetitive motion. 

Back and forth. 

Blunt nails across sleep warmed skin. 

Silky strands of hair slipping between his fingers. 

Back-

And forth.

Aziraphale didn’t sleep so much as he entered a trance, fully aware of everything and everyone within a block radius, keeping the lookout he’d promised Crowley he would while attempting to rest and think. Just what should they expect from their respective offices? Surely they wouldn’t get away with defying Satan to his face and siding against both Beelzebub and Gabriel the way they had.

But, whatever happened, whatever came their way, Aziraphale thought to himself, they would be alright. 

As long as they were together, they could weather the oncoming storm. 

As long as they could be like this, soft and close and unafraid, they could make it out the other side.

As long as they had each other, they’d be fine.

And that thought alone was enough to keep Aziraphale afloat, just as it had been enough to hold the broken pieces of Crowley together for the last 5 millennia. 

The first thousand years he was on the Earth, Aziraphale gravitated to Crowley without knowing why, and then he’d figured it out and kept that candle cradled in his heart. Aziraphale had been in love with the demon, his adversary, for 5000 years and had known it as soon as the light from the setting sun hit Crowley’s eyes just right one evening while they passed a bottle of wine between them. It hadn’t been anything special, nothing monumental, but Aziraphale’s world changed between one breath and another amidst a horizon painted in fiery reds and golds.

And God looked upon them and all they had done on this Earth and how they had dealt with Her most beloved creations and saw that, the both of them, they were Good.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me in a couple of places!
> 
> Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire>  
> Tumblr: <https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/>
> 
> All my graphics/photomanips are there plus you can find updates on anything if you send me an ask or message! I also take graphic/banner/emoji requests and writing prompts/requests.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Binary Systems](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622524) by [cassieoh_draws (cassieoh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws)




End file.
